


wishful thinking

by fictionalparadises



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Daniel just got a podium, Fluff, German GP 2020, M/M, Mutual Pining, Secret Relationship, max is an idiot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:35:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26957434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fictionalparadises/pseuds/fictionalparadises
Summary: It’s been so long.
Relationships: Daniel Ricciardo/Max Verstappen
Comments: 6
Kudos: 135





	wishful thinking

**Author's Note:**

> because Max and Daniel finally had a podium together again, and i couldn't just not write about it.

Max is tired, hot and sweaty when he crosses the finish line, checkered flag waving in the corner of his eye. He tries to see who’s behind him in his rearview mirror, but the asphalt is bumpy and it shakes too much for him to actually see anything.

His engineer is talking over the radio, congratulating him on his win and citing the results of the race. He can barely hear Lambiase over the roaring in his ears then, almost forgetting to reply as he pulls into the parc fermé and slows to a stop.

His hands are shaking as he takes out the steering wheel and unbuckles his seatbelt, not from the cold but from sheer excitement.

He turns his head just in time to see as Daniel stops his car in front of the P3 sign.

Then he forces himself to move, gets out of the car and walks over to his stand and pretends like everything is normal. He steps onto the scale and steps off, takes off his helmet and puts on his mask, wipes the sweat from his forehead with a towel and makes his way towards the interviewer, like everything is normal, because everything _is_ normal.

Isn’t it?

He answers some questions about his pace and the safety car, tries not to let his gaze wander as he talks about the extra point he managed to get, gives the interviewer a nod as he turns on his feet.

His heart skips a beat when he sees Daniel and Dan’s so preoccupied that he almost walks straight past. He skids to a halt just in time and Max, stupid, overwhelmed Max nearly goes in for a hug to congratulate him on the podium, manages to stop himself just in time and instead sticks out his fist.

“Congrats, mate,” he says, voice muffled through the mask. “You did a phenomenal job.” It's an understatement. Max's limbs feel almost detached with how fucking proud and happy he is for him. He wishes he could put into words what he feels, how euphoric he is. 

Daniel’s eyes crinkle around the corners, like they always do when he smiles, and Max just knows without having to see that the grin under that black mask is bright as usual, perhaps even brighter now with this win. He strongly regrets not being able to see the smile up close.

“Thanks, man. You too!” He replies, feet already taking him to the interviewer.

Max forces himself to keep walking. Someone points him to the stairs and he trades his caps, waiting in the small hallway and listening to the announcer’s voice over the speakers.

He can barely keep his eyes off Daniel as he takes his place on the podium, careful not to kick over the champagne. His fingers are itching so he intertwines them behind his back and tries to focus on his team cheering in the pitlane. Still, his eyes drift to Daniel every now and then, during the National Anthems and when the trophies are handed over. He’s ecstatic when he accepts his prize, but can’t take his eyes off Dan when he gets his. He deserves this, every bit of it and more. He almost can't believe he's standing here again, on a podium with Daniel fucking Ricciardo. 

Daniel’s eyes are bright, a smile evident on his face even from a few feet away, even with half of it covered.

It’s been so long. He knows it’s been so long. He feels a weird combination of pride and elation in his chest, tightening around his ribs until he barely remembers how to breathe.

Finally the familiar tune booms through the speakers and Max decides, fuck it, he barely has any self-control as it is, he snatches up the bottle of champagne and reaches Daniel within three steps, spraying Moet all over his face before lifting the bottle over his head and watching him nearly scream with laughter as the cold drips into his suit, over his back.

Dan ducks, trying to get away, and Max wants nothing more than to pull him up by the collar of his shirt and kiss him.

Obviously, he can’t, not here, not now, so he turns away to pour champagne over Lewis, then drinks the bit that’s left it in the bottle.

He’s going to need it.

* * *

The interviews are dreadfully long. It’s an effort of will to not glance over his shoulder every single time he hears the faint sound of Daniel’s voice, or his laugh, or the way he drags out the _uhm_ whenever he’s not sure how to phrase certain things.

There’s a spare moment before the official press conference where they somehow find each other, Daniel giving Max’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze as they talk about the race.

Max doesn’t want to talk about the race. He’s said enough about that already; he wants to tell Daniel how much he missed being on the podium together, how proud he is of him, how good that smile full of newfound confidence looks on him.

Now is not the time. He knows. But when is?

When he tells him, it will probably be over a phone call, screen pressed to his ear to hear Daniel’s voice static-y from the other side of the line, chest hurting when he’ll laugh, so lively but never the same over the phone. It will be a short call, because there’s never enough time, not with him, and even if the call is long it will still be too short.

It’s always short-lived moments between them, fleeting touches and quick smiles. Max holds onto those lingering glances and hushed whispers whenever he’s staring at the ceiling of his hotel room in the middle of the night, wondering if he’s lost his sanity, asking himself if whatever it is between them is not just some conjuring of his imagination.

Some days—all days—it feels too good to be true.

Some days—all days—it hurts, to love him like that. But some pain is good pain, and this might be the best he’s ever felt.

* * *

The press conference is even more dreadful. That’s mainly because one, Lewis is sitting between them, two, he’s blocking every possible angle from which Max could stare at Daniel, and three, he’s so distracted that he doesn’t hear three different questions, which results in him desperately trying to talk his way out of it by telling completely bullshit stories.

From Daniel’s muffled laughing, he’s messed up tremendously, but at least Daniel is laughing so not all of it is a wasted effort.

He thinks of Wednesday night, when his phone wouldn’t stop buzzing at one in the morning. His eyes had been burning from staring at his computer screen for so long and he’d muted the discord call he was in to glance at his screen, eyes skimming over the few notifications until they landed on a name that made his heart skip a beat.

Daniel had basically bullied him into going to bed that night, asking him ‘why the hell he was up playing that stupid game when he should be asleep’, and Max had tried to make up some excuse but in reality he’d been so touched by the gesture that he went to bed, simply because Daniel asked him to.

“Max, why don’t you go first?” 

His head snaps up at the interviewer's voice, a blush rising on his cheeks but hidden beneath his mask, and he realizes to his horror that he once again didn’t hear the question.

“Uh,” he stammers, god, he’s a real idiot, isn’t he—

“That’s an awkward question to ask,” Lewis cuts in, and Max is grateful for the few seconds it buys him.

Daniel leans forward, just the slightest bit, and makes direct eye contact with him, quirking a brow. Max’s stomach does these stupid flips that aren’t helping the situation. And then Daniel speaks up before he can, because he’s Daniel and he’s too good to be real, and he not only answers the question but also repeats it in a sentence.

If Max could kiss him right now, he would.

But he’s been over that. Possibly a million times.

After what feels like an eternity, the press conference is over. Daniel waits until he’s out of his chair and walks with him back to the motorhome, hand brushing past his occasionally, just so that it’s not suspicious, and Max’s skin is on fire.

There’s too many people around. He wants to scream.

His PA is blowing up his phone in his back pocket, but he pointedly ignores it and keeps his gaze fixed on Daniel, who’s chattering on about celebrations and Cyril’s tattoo and the fact that his face is still sticky from the champagne.

He should go. He has debrief and his flight departs almost immediately after, he still has to pack his stuff and the airport is an hour’s drive from here. He wishes Daniel would join his flight.

Daniel’s phone rings at the same time that Michael calls his name from a few feet away, and he throws Max a sheepish grin. “Gotta go. Duty calls.” He raises his fist and bumps it against Max’s, fingers unfurling after automatically, and Daniel—he knows Max, he recognizes the need for a hug even with the limited view of his features—he reaches out and tightens his fingers around Max’s for a second, squeezing gently. “I’ll see you around, yeah?” Then he lets go.

 _When_ , he wants to ask, but Daniel doesn’t have the answer to that question either, so he just nods and watches as he vanishes. Max turns on his heel and walks inside.

Perhaps that’s what he hates most about this—whatever _this_ is. The not-knowing, the uncertainty, the if’s and when’s and how’s, the impossibility of the whole damn situation.

He slumps in a seat opposite of Alex, who looks as miserable as he currently feels.

And he tries, tries so damn hard to focus on whatever his engineers are saying, but his mind trails back to Daniel every time, because who else would he be thinking of if not Daniel.

He thinks of last night, of the scruffy red carpet in the hallway he studied as he trudged to Daniel’s room on his socks, wearing nothing but a t-shirt and sweatpants. He’d planned on not doing this tonight because he didn’t want to bother Dan, but he hadn’t been able to sleep and judging from the string of messages he’d received, Daniel hadn’t either.

He thinks of the starchy sheets, of the soft hoodie Daniel had been wearing and his endless complaints that it was too cold _—“how are you wearing only a t-shirt right now?”_ —he thinks of the tentative sweep of fingers over the tender skin of Max’s shoulder, goosebumps appearing with every pattern Daniel traced.

He thinks of the brush of a kiss, lips soft on his, the scratch of Dan’s stubble on his chin and his cheek and his neck, he thinks of the giggles that only Dan ever hears because he’d die if he ever laughed like that in public, he thinks of the dark and how comforting it can be whenever he’s curled in a pair of strong arms.

Max had awoken this morning with their limbs so entangled it had taken him literal minutes to get out of bed without waking Daniel, the sight of him in the hotel bed buried under three blankets branded in his mind as he made his way back to his own room.

He’s been dreaming for so long that debrief is over before he knows it, and then his PA is urging him on to hurry the hell up before they miss the plane. Which, to be fair, is bullshit, because they have a private jet and it’s not like it would leave without them, but nonetheless, he rushes to pack his bags. If only because it keeps him distracted. 

The flight to Monaco is only one and a half hours long, but it feels a lot longer. Max sleeps for thirty minutes and spends the rest of the time staring outside, watching clouds float by and wishing Daniel was sitting in the chair opposite of him, kicking his shin to annoy him, or laughing obnoxiously loud at a picture on his phone before leaning over to show it to him.

Max wishes for a great many things. He barely ever gets them.

* * *

His apartment feels awfully empty when he gets back home. He flings his keys on the kitchen counter, makes himself some food and only eats half of it, then decides to spend the rest of the night in bed, even if it’s only eight thirty.

He can’t sleep—how surprising—but isn’t able to commit to watching a movie on Netflix either. He makes a mental calculation of when he could possibly see Daniel again, but he doesn’t really know when he returns, so the earliest he comes up with is Thursday or Friday. That just makes him more upset, and he pats around the mattress for his phone.

When he imagined Daniel getting another podium, this isn’t exactly how he pictured celebrating.

And he’s being unfair, he knows that. Daniel deserves to celebrate properly with his team after fighting for a podium for so long, he deserves to drink champagne and do a shoey in his dressing room after apparently forgetting to do so during the ceremony—Max saw the video on Instagram just after his plane landed and nearly smacked himself in the face. Besides, Max got P2, he should not feel as he does right now.

He just wishes he could have celebrated with Daniel instead of seeing a few pictures on a screen. He wishes he could’ve kissed him on that podium instead of merely pouring champagne down his back.

Maybe he likes to make himself miserable. He is, in fact, asking for the unreachable. He’s been over this a million times, not just in his mind but with Daniel, too.

With a groan, he unlocks his phone and mindlessly scrolls through his social medias to distract himself. He’ll see Daniel again before the end of the week, he thinks to himself with a smile, and that’s just as much a gift as anything else.

He’s just in that weird state of being half-asleep at three in the morning, phone still clenched in his hand, when there’s a knock on the door. Max stumbles out of bed and pads across the cold floor with bare feet, goosebumps slowly rising on his arms.

Daniel is standing in the doorpost, backpack over his shoulder, suitcase next to him. Max isn't sure whether he's actually awake.

“Hey,” Daniel greets him with a soft smile, his eyes betraying exhaustion.

Max rubs his eyes with his palm, blinks once, twice. “Hey,” he says at last. “I didn’t know you were going back too, tonight.” He steps aside to let him in.

“We weren’t. But we finished packing much earlier and then the weather tomorrow was going to be shitty so they pushed our flight to leave two hours ago.”

“And here you are,” Max says, the hint of a smile on his face. It vanishes as soon as it appeared at the next thought. “Shouldn’t you be celebrating a podium?”

Daniel shrugs, dropping his backpack to the floor and kicking the front door shut with his foot. “I celebrated plenty, don’t worry. I’m just tired, now, ‘s all.” _And I wanted to see you_. He doesn’t outright say it, but the way Daniel’s gaze lingers on Max’s face says enough.

"I don't have any champagne," he blurts, unsure of what else to say. He'd been wanting to celebrate with Daniel, of course he had, but it feels incomplete right now, like something is missing and he doesn't have what Dan requires.

A subdued smile cracks on Daniel's face, dimple appearing on his cheek. "I don't need champagne to feel like a winner." 

Max's cheeks burn. “Come on, then.” He takes Daniel’s hand and tugs him along to the bedroom, waiting impatiently for him to join him under the now slightly-cooled covers. “Fuck, you’re like a block of ice, mate,” he curses once Daniel rolls over. A loud laugh echoes through the darkness of the room.

Something strained uncoils in Max’s chest at the sound.

He wraps his arms around Daniel as tight as he can, feeling his pulse drumming under his fingertips. It’s a familiar feeling to lie like this, one that he allows himself to sink into, one that he thinks he’ll never get enough of.

When Daniel finally kisses him, it faintly occurs to him that celebrations are overrated. _He doesn't need champagne to feel like a winner._

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!! leave a comment <33
> 
> find me on twitter @sundaycore


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